The Beautiful Disaster
by Glyphron
Summary: Hawke and Fenris set about clearing a network of slavers. But, face many trials as the battle drags on. Until everything goes wrong.


This is not the first nest of vile scum they have cleared. Nor will it be the last. They have come to hunt this filth and their ilk together, he and Hawke. A common hatred giving them a common cause and thirst for violence. He presents them with an open challenge, something to keep their focus while she delicately weaves through the shadows. A spider working across threads of its web to silence those unwary of how their struggles attract her. Stalking ever closer for the final, venomous, bite.

Their alliance in these hunts have been rather long term. She is drawn to seek them out to fulfill old grudges, just as he is. And, often, they would stumble upon each other in their conquests to sate their own needs. This would bring problems, as their methods were vastly different. It had been cause for needless stress and danger as they tried to work around each other. But, their unquenchable bloodlust soon forged them into a pair, and that is how they stayed. Ridding Kirkwall streets of pillagers out for new flesh to trade off for coin in the slave market.

Fenris does not object to playing the game a little dangerously, allowing himself to be mostly surrounded. He knows Elvauni is slinking in the blackest corners, safe from all eyes and will not allow him to be overtaken. A loyalty she would never admit to in a bid to deny weakness, but she has proven it time and again. Her vigilance is ever constant.

As surely as his blade whips through slaver after slaver, others are falling to her phantom blades that trail across throats, or plunge into rib cages and exposed spines. It takes their prey some time to move past confusion into realization that another threat is lurking beyond notice. And their attempts to track both enemies divides their attention, keeping them at a disadvantage. Victory shall be theirs, yet again. No survivors will be left to contend against them or the world. And for, yet another night, the addiction to vengeance will be soothed.

The assumption is costly, their fortune turning. Despite the most careful plots offered on the battlefield, success is never guaranteed.

Fenris bears down on a swordsman aiming to rush him, cleaving him apart as he nears in his faulty charge. His markings sing to his flesh. Not the melody of death to inflict, but the high pitched harmony of danger. Magic is present, and being gathered in one point of pressure to lethal proportions. The heavy aura it emits plies to his skin, causing the lyrium to ache. He turns to seek out the source and silence it before the damage can be done. But, fending off his former opponent has taken too much time, it is too late.

A torrent of flame rips through the distance between himself and the mage. Crossing it with incredible speed, and catching Fenris' leg, even as he twists away. His tattoos give him great resistance to spells of nearly every sort, but it is not an infallible defense. The new foe is powerful, well trained in his trade. His spell is potent, and any challenger less than a templar or Fenris himself in the ways of shielding through lyrium, would be incinerated. Fenris gets away with a nasty burn to his calf and ankle, but, suffers nothing more.

The pain and agony does render him less capable. But, an experience of the past has hardened him to such misery, an ordeal that left him forever as he is now. Scarred by white and intricate patterns, so he continues on. Something most would be unable to do. But, he is weakened, and the unexpected reliance on Hawke herself to keep his back and finish what they have started, throws them off balance. It flings them into chaos.

Not long after, Fenris is under attack from four of their targets who vye to overpower him now that he is vulnerable. Elvauni is forced from the cloak of her shadows to defend him. Commitment to her friend blazing in all its glory, despite all the lies she spouts to fend off such accusations. Even in the light, she is an efficient killer, but one out of her element while trying to make up for his inability.

Assassins of her caliber are nearly always solo predators. They take on their victims alone and in secret. Quietly removing the competition from play. Hawke is no different. And, despite their continual allegiance in these matters, years of training and habitual methods have their toll. She is learning how to cooperate in tandem with another, as he is. But, still not fluent in this new way of fighting.

On other battlefields, in other wars, this imperfection is genuinely invisible. There's always more than one other in her company, as she fakes herself to be nothing more than a high strung rogue with a sassy tongue. Her true nature hidden beneath jokes and noxious green eyes. She does not have to match her companions in rhythm or strategy. And, if ever she does, she can choose which will be easiest to work with as style differs from ally to ally. No one questions what they see because, no one is looking at the flaws so carefully disguised in normal combat.

Elvauni gives them hell, wreaks complete havoc. She cuts them deep, bleeds them into their ends. Her lashing is like that of panther cornered, her assault vicious. But, even she falls under the weight suddenly dropped upon her shoulders. An enemy dagger manages to sheath itself within her side, and it is then she knows the challenge is over. They are lost. Fenris senses this, and he lowers his sword.

He would not give in to being taken back to Tevinter, but will not forfeit her life. There is more to their bond than killing, more to their cooperation. More than allies, or friends... Just, more.

Neither are ready to go to their grave, not that the slavers would kill Fenris. He is worth too much, and they knew it. But, Hawke held no worth at all, she was too much of a risk to leave alive. Still, she surrenders, her wicked tongue coming to her rescue. As stained with blood as it is, still, it is made of silver and her words are a poison that can corrupt almost any mind. She pleads for her life in the form of bargaining, her thoughts already amassing ideas, plan after plan shaping and being analyzed. This battle was only over for this moment.

Like a jackal her teeth flash wryly as she claims of being valuable to the right people. Her only present goal, to survive. All else will align later on as she goes. Elvauni tells them many things, some true, some false. None the less, her wit wears down their senses with promises of feeding their greed. Like fools they are lured into her notions, falling to them as magi would a demon.

Fenris comes to her aid as well, offering to stand down and do as told, so long as she is spared. Vowing not to struggle. Something that catches him a glint of earnest surprise from her irises. Between the two of them, the slavers are convinced to keep her alive. If nothing else than to have Fenris' compliance, the gold he will bring a sure trade.

Aware she is a viper, however, they do not trust her enough to do much more than wrap a scrap of cloth about her waist to slow the bleeding of her wound. Weapons are taken, disposed of. Both of them are shackled, although they bind her up more thouroughly. Tying her knees together and lashing her arms to her sides, coiling the ropes thick and tight. They can tell she is a slippery captive, one with talents suitable for slithering out of their grasp if given the chance. The air about her speaks of this boldly.

In effort to keep Fenris complacent, willing and therefore no trouble, they allow her to be thrown in the same cell. They have heard all the stories of hunters who never return, cast aside by the 'Little Wolf' Danarius wishes returned. Their ears have listened to tales of what he can do when the lines begin to glow and surge with energy. They fear it.

There is a large compliment of guards left to watch and listen. Poised, waiting, for any treachery just outside the bars of their tiny cage. They expect defiance, a wise conclusion. It was no question of if, but of when.

Fenris presses both of his chained hands to the puncture at her side as she lays limp before him, trying not to let his eyes screw shut and his teeth grind. His ankle screaming in horrendous revolt. The burn is not much to worry about, his skin is blistered, but in tact. In fact, it would have been easy enough to ignore had it not been a burn, which is more excruciating than any cut. The pain had stiffened him a little, taking the edge off of his maneuverability. It only takes the smallest of issues to tip the scale of a battle to another's favor. This is an excellent example.

For a moment, he fears Elvauni has passed out from the loss of blood as she rests motionless, giving no indication she feels his touch. Red soaks his hands, even as he pushes and he knows she will not last long if he cannot stem the flow. Yet, even as it fountains up through her clothes, he notices at last, she is suddenly in motion. Curling tighter, groaning for the benefit of feigning greater weakness than she yet feels. Meanwhile, her fingers fish at the lip of her boot for a tool they did not find, her back to the gate so their guards cannot see. A tiny knife and a pick, held carefully in her hands as she twists them into the locks of her cuffs. Careful not to make any sound as she cranks them in her tries.

Ever so delicately, she releases the hold of a single cuff at her feet and both at her wrists, neglecting to remove them from where they wrap around her. She saws through each rope constricting her chest, holding the ends together to keep the threads taut. Then her eyes peer up at him, her face weary but irises vibrant. Her movements have been so soft and subtle, the glares at her back have not been alerted.

Hawke's line of sight darts to Fenris' application of pressure to her wound. Her expression whispering of her intent. She holds her breath a moment then brings it back, working it until it is ragged. But her face is calm, undisturbed by her pretend labor for air. He watches, fascinated, as she gives a cry after a while. Her voice convincingly strained, burdened. Some of it is real, just not enough to hold her back.

"Help," comes her whimper, "I cannot breathe..."

Her mock begging hurts him, his thoughts imagining how this could be reality. The flood of her life force has barely slowed, and shows no signs of ceasing. Their time is running short, even if she is only acting currently.

"Please," she huffs again.

He picks up her trick, amplifies it with his own.

"Are you not listening?"

He snarls at them, letting a real shiver of emotion twinge through his body.

"She is dying. You gave your word you would spare her for mine. Please, you cannot let her die," he mulls, face softening into concern, "I will do anything. Please!"

One grunts, "Mel, she's all chained up. If it means the elf won't put up a fuss, we might as well keep her from 'the pit.' She's no use to us except to keep him quiet, and that's useful enough. Better he goes back to his Master without a fight. We're getting paid to return him nothing more. No point in making things difficult. His owner can decide what to do with the whore."

"Yeah, yeah," replies Mel, "Two of you get over here to hold her down. I won't risk the opportunity of escape. Grab a bucket of water and some rags. It's the best we've got."

He wanders over to the entrance, a braided whip in hand.

"Back up elf. Into the corner with you. Or else we'll leave her to bleed as she is. And you stay there, don't move. Or I'm likely to kill her myself."

Fenris crawls away from her with a frown of disdain. She is on her own now, she had better know exactly how she is going to do this.

"Good, turn the other way."

He does so slowly, every fiber of his being shouting for him not to. Still, he does.

Two others move to Mel's shoulder, ready to assist. He unlocks the door cautiously, and they carefully step up to Hawke. As they bend down to pin her, she strikes like a flash of lightning. Her tiny knife grooving out Mel's left eye and her fingers snagging his whip. Sprinting between the others who reach for her and through the gate before it can be shut again. Fenris rises, spinning on the heel of his better foot. He deals with the other two in haste, shredding their hearts in his hands. He follows suit to support his partner as she flogs the faces of her pursuers with the end of her stolen whip. Snaking it around the nearest slaver's neck after, and strangling his soul from his limbs.

Claws and lyrium phasing serves Fenris best, though his stance is still rigid. Unrefined as the great sting of his singed flesh persists. Taking the sharp edge of his focus and dulling it. Not much, but just enough. It slows him and the alarm is raised, alerting the whole nest to their escape. Just in time for the last guard to join his comrades in lifeless sleep. It was time for Fenris and Elvauni to flee.

Their luck turns sour yet further. Hawke sways and stumbles, the puncture beginning to take effect, sapping her strength as it still spills blood from its core. She cannot keep up as they run for their freedom, the lights in her eyes fading under the oppression of her loss. Her strength and clarity waning, yet she gives it her all. And her best is failing.

Foes close behind in the chase, he heaves her up into his arms ignoring all protests. He spurs himself to his limits, breaching his top speed with her in tow. Forcing himself onward and out the way they came, towards the maze of Kirkwall streets beyond the docks' warehouses. Beyond 'here.' They streak into the night air followed, still, by their enemies. But, Fenris has lived in this city long enough to know which routes to take to loose the hunters. He follows that path with conviction.

Soon the danger falls behind them, they lose sight of their quarry. Eventually, even the echoes of shouts and storming of boots have given way to silence. He and Hawke have earned reprieve. But, still, it is not over.

Fenris slows his pace, trying to catch his wind. In his arms, Elvauni is still as a cloth doll. Too pale and her eyes have slipped closed, her body gone cold. She does not stir no matter how he shakes her, and his heart leaps into his throat.

He carries her to her uncle's home, the closest refuge there is. Every footfall brings a new suffering, a terror of what he may be holding now. Not a woman, but a corpse. Pale and perfect, despite her lack of pulse if it is so. Yes, he loves her. That is why he has risked recapture and nearly allowed himself to be dragged back to his personal hell. He has loved her for some time now. They are creatures of the same make, sculpted from a similar mold. And that is both a comfort and a cure to his lonliness.

Gamlen ushers them within, bewildered by what he sees on his doorstep. He clears a flimsy wooden table and has Fenris lay her there, bringing water, bandages, and even some broth moments after. Her heart still shudders in her breast, but she is not well. Fenris will fetch Anders as soon as he is able. First, he ensures the wound is dressed properly, cleaning it gently beforehand. He waits until the dark stain of her blood stops spreading, and most of the broth has been dripped down her tongue to nourish her dimming energy.

For the trouble, he is offered a second of respite. She shifts under his hands, blinking open her emerald eyes.

"Damn it," she sighs, "Why is it I'm always saving your ass? And why does it always end with me taking a hit for you? Danger is exciting, but this is ridiculous. Just once, I'd like to not bleed for it..."

Her voice is quiet, lacking vigor.

He frowns apologetically, "I am sorry."

"Well, we will just say you owe me for every time it happens," she scoffs, "I doubt this is the last I'll have to deal with it. As it stands now, you'll owe me forever. I guess that means you'll be working with me for years to come."

A weak smirk crosses her lips, and something lingers inside her words. Something more than a joke or tease, and the suggestion does not worry him. Any other point in his life he would have fought against such a notion tooth and nail, refusing to be tied to one place or to anyone. Now, however, it seemed like a preferable purpose. A direction to take his life in alongside something he cannot remember ever feeling before. As intimidating as love is, it is a craving he cannot deny.

He curls his fingers over hers, letting his palm rest over top her own, briefly, before stowing out the door for Darktown and the Lit Lantern. Where Anders will be found, his healing brought to her and put to use. He does not know it, but, in his absence Hawke smiles with a magnitude of truth and joy she has not felt in many years. It is not a bad evening, despite how everything has gone wrong.


End file.
